The Virgin And The Vagabond

How could such a thing have happened?

Of course, there was always the possibility that Kirby herself was responsible for her untouched status, he thought further. Maybe she simply gave any man who approached her the brush-off. After all, hadn’t she just done that very thing with him? She could be frigid, completely uninterested in sex. Or even a manhater, for that matter.

Immediately, though, he knew that wasn’t true. He could tell by the way she had responded to his touch only a few moments ago that she was in no way frigid. There was, without question, a wantonness in her that ran deep and strong. Kirby had a healthy sexual hunger—there was no question about that. What James couldn’t figure out was why she tried so hard not to feed it.

He returned his attention to the copy of Tattle Tales that sat innocently on the shelf. Although he had shouldered the mantle of Most Desirable Man in America with some pride, he hadn’t read the accompanying article in the magazine. Mainly because he honestly hadn’t cared what it said. Not until he’d seen Kirby perusing it. Now he couldn’t help but wonder what kind of conclusions she had been drawing as she read.

Probably none that were any worse than the ones she had already drawn about him, he thought dryly. For such a scion of innocence, purity and goodness, she sure was quick to see the worst in people.

Reluctantly he reached for the copy of the glossy tabloid and gazed at the picture of himself as indifferently as he could. Not the best shot that had ever been snapped of him, but it wasn’t bad. The headlines, however, were a little extreme. He wasn’t nearly naughty enough to warrant an exclamation point. Nor was he nice enough to have commanded an ellipsis. Not the way they meant it anyway.

He glanced up again at the door through which Kirby had passed with her colleagues. He had meant it when he’d told her she was worth waiting for. Folding himself into the chair she had vacated, oddly thrilled by the knowledge that his fanny was occupying the same cushion hers had, James sat himself down and began to read.

Three

Almost an hour after running away from James, Kirby exited the committee meeting, filled with both anticipation and dread. Part of her was praying that after their parting, he had become bored with whatever game he had initiated with her, and had abandoned both it and her to hunt for bigger game. But another—and if she were honest, a bigger—part of her was hoping like crazy that he was still in the library reading room waiting for her.

He was.

Lounging comfortably in the overstuffed, burgundy-colored chair she had occupied earlier, his long legs stretched out before him and crossed at the ankles, he had his head bent down over a magazine in his lap, his attention utterly focused on whatever he was reading. One elbow was propped on the arm of the chair, and his hand, with knuckles bent slightly, cradled his strong jaw. Kirby’s gaze was drawn to the bare forearm exposed by the rolled-up sleeve of his shirt, and she wondered why she’d never noticed before just how sexy a man’s arms could be.

And his hands, too. James Nash may be a globe-trotting celebrity, but he had great hands—big, bronzed, broad, blunt-fingered. They looked like a laborer’s hands, yet she was certain he’d never performed an honest day’s work in his life. Sailing, perhaps, or mountain climbing maybe, or some other adventurous activity, must be what had given him such roughened, strong-looking hands and such a fit, well-formed body.

How would those hands feel caressing a woman’s skin? she wondered out of nowhere, both shocked and fascinated by the idea. Then she realized she already knew the answer to the question. She had already felt his hands on her face, the rough tips of his fingers gliding over her cheek and neck and throat. But how would it feel to have his fingers skimming over other, more sensitive parts of her anatomy?

She felt herself coloring at the thought and banished it, assuring herself that she would never discover the answer to that question, because from here on out, she intended to maintain a very safe distance from James Nash. Then, in direct opposition to her resolution, she strode toward him with slow, hesitant strides.

It amazed her still that he had selected her for the focus of his attentions. Why? She had no idea. There were dozens of single women in Endicott, all of them far more capable than she was of handling a man like him. Why had he singled her out, especially after she’d made it clear to him that she wasn’t interested?

Then again, she knew he had a reputation for being a little eccentric. She knew this, because the topic of the festival committee’s discussion all evening had not been about the numerous festival issues facing them, but had instead focused on none other than James Nash, Kirby’s new best friend.

Even after she’d assured the other members that she and James were anything but friends, that she’d only made his acquaintance that very afternoon—and under dubious circumstances, at best—everyone had insisted she should be the one to ask him the Big Question.

The Big Question being: Would he be interested in appearing as the grand marshal of the Parallax Parade, replacing the until-now irreplaceable Rufus Laidlaw, Hollywood wannabe?

The Big Question was, to Kirby’s way of thinking, a Very Bad Idea, something that would force her to be in contact with him a lot more than she really wanted to be. Part of her position on the committee was seeing to out-of-town visitors, making them feel welcome, being sure they had everything they needed, presenting them with the absolute best view of Endicott that the small town had to offer.

PR—that was Kirby’s main objective. But where James Nash was concerned, somehow the P in PR came to stand much more for personal relations than it did public.

She slowed her step as she drew nearer, wishing she could do something to stifle the shudder of electric heat that tried to overtake her every time she came within ten feet of him. But that little incident they’d shared in the library stacks a short time ago was still far too fresh in her memory for her to be able to banish any kind of trepidation she felt around him. On the contrary, seeing him again so soon after such an encounter only made her feel more wary, more cautious, more scared.

And alas, more turned on.

She told herself that she was merely the victim of her own libido. Any man who had said to her the things James had said, who had touched her the way he had, would make her overreact, simply because she’d never had a man speak to or touch her that way before. It wasn’t James Nash specifically who caused her to feel so...so...so wanton, she decided. So needy. Goodness, so hot. It was the man’s behavior, nothing more. Once the novelty of being treated like a sex kitten wore off, surely she’d see past his handsome, sexy, erotic, hot, uh...handsome exterior, to the promiscuous playboy Peeping Tom beneath.

As if he knew how she’d just labeled him, he lifted his head slowly from his reading material, then met her gaze with laughing eyes. She forced herself to look away and found herself staring at the copy of Tattle Tales unfolded in his lap.

When she stopped a few feet shy of him, he rose from his chair and carefully closed the magazine. “It’s true,” he said in a library-appropriate whisper. “You really can’t believe everything you read. I had no idea there were so many errors in this article.”

Kirby arched her eyebrows in surprise. “You mean you hadn’t read it yet?”

James shook his head. “Nah. Why would I want to read about myself? I already know everything. It would be boring. I really don’t care for nonfiction, anyway.” He glared down at the magazine again. “Then again, seeing as how this article is almost complete friction, you’d think I would have enjoyed it a bit more than I did.”

She feigned shock. “What? You mean the press has succumbed to sensationalism? I had no idea. How very appalling.”

“Sensationalism?” he echoed, her sarcasm evidently lost on him. so sharp was his anger. “Are you kidding? This is filled with flat-out lies.”

Kirby, not sure whether to believe him or not, only adopted what she hoped was a bland expression and replied, “Really.”

He nodded fiercely. “I mean, I can’t believe Sissy Devane said what she did about me. She and I only dated for a week, and we never slept together.”

“Oh, no?” Kirby asked dubiously.